As Yan Qing’s consciousness began to unravel, drifting toward the nameless dark, a sudden jolt snapped him back. His body shook—hard enough to wrench him from the edge of oblivion. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the blur.

  “…Chen?” The name slipped out, half hope, half disbelief. The face before him was achingly familiar, yet strange—blank, unreadable, but if you looked closely, worry shimmered in the depths of those golden eyes.

  You must not fall asleep.

  The words pressed into Yan Qing’s mind, not spoken but felt, a ripple of thought with no voice or inflection.

  “Huh?” Yan Qing frowned, confusion clouding his features. He didn’t understand.

  If you sleep now, you’ll never wake again.

  The message was clear, even without emotion. This Chen—this version from the past—still spoke telepathically, his thoughts sliding into Yan Qing’s mind like water through stone.

  Yan Qing’s gaze dropped, his expression shadowed. “If I die… does it matter?”

  The Teleopean’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion flickering across his face. Most living things clung to life. Why did this being speak of death as if it were nothing at all?

  “Still… thank you for caring. I’ll keep my distance.” Yan Qing tried to rise, as if to slip away quietly.

  But a hand caught his wrist—firm, unyielding.

  I won’t let you.

  The thought struck like a command, freezing Yan Qing in place. He looked up, and for a heartbeat, the warmth in those golden eyes was so familiar it hurt. For a moment, he almost mistook this Chen for the one he’d loved.

  His heart twisted painfully.

  But this Chen was younger, rough-edged—a version not yet shaped by the future they’d shared.

  So he tried to leave. Because no matter how tightly he held on, the past could not be rewritten.

  “I’m sorry. Please let go.” Yan Qing’s voice was small, his head bowed, black hair falling to hide his face.

  The golden eyes narrowed, refusing to yield.

  “Please. I’m so tired… I can’t keep running. I don’t want to fight anymore.” Yan Qing’s voice trembled, a thin thread of pleading. “Just… let me go—!”

  In a flash, the Teleopean’s hand caught his chin, forcing Yan Qing to meet his gaze. The blank mask cracked, and anger—quiet, contained—burned in those narrow pupils.

  You can’t come to me like this, only to turn away.

  Chen’s mouth opened, but only a raw, broken sound escaped—a voice unused to speech, a language never taught.

  He wasn’t refusing to speak. He simply had no words, no one to teach him how.

  “I don’t understand you,” Yan Qing whispered, struggling to pull free, desperate to escape.

  But Chen’s grip was iron. As always, he would not let Yan Qing slip away.

  They remained locked in that silent struggle until, without warning, Chen hoisted Yan Qing over his shoulder and strode back toward the ruined ship.

  The world spun. Yan Qing kicked and pounded in protest, but it was useless. “Put me down! Put me down!” He hammered at Chen’s back, but the Teleopean carried him as if he weighed nothing, all the way to the battered craft.

  Chen set him on the bed, turned, and left the sleeping cabin—locking the door behind him.

  Yan Qing sat, stunned, unable to make sense of Chen’s actions. Maybe the struggle had been too much. Even sitting still, the room seemed to tilt and warp, the edges of his vision bending as if reality itself were coming undone.

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  His neck throbbed. His head grew heavy. His body slipped from his control—he tipped sideways, about to fall—

  But before he could hit the cold alloy floor, something warm caught him.

  Chen had only stepped out for a moment. Returning, he caught sight of Yan Qing slipping from the edge of the berth and lunged, catching him against his chest.

  Unused to such closeness, Chen froze, uncertain. He lowered his head, lips moving as if to speak, but no sound came.

  “Let me go,” Yan Qing whispered, his voice thin and trembling. He sagged in Chen’s arms, breath coming shallow and fast. “You don’t want someone dying in your home, do you?” His lips were pale, eyes unfocused. “The radiation… I can’t survive it. My body’s not made for this.”

  Then stay inside. The hull will shield you.

  It was both an answer and a refusal.

  “Look at me. I’m not going to last.” Yan Qing’s eyes, rimmed red, met Chen’s. “Why do you care?”

  Silence.

  Chen’s golden gaze held him, pupils contracting and dilating with emotions Yan Qing couldn’t name.

  The moment I saw you, I thought I’d finally lost my mind.

  After a long pause, Chen’s thought pressed in again, deepening Yan Qing’s confusion.

  “I don’t understand.”

  I’m a Continuation. In my predecessor’s memories, Continuations are always… mad. When I saw you—someone I thought was only a memory—I believed I’d gone insane.

  Chen’s lashes lowered, shadowing his face with something like grief.

  “Continuation?” Yan Qing echoed, the word strange on his tongue.

  I don’t want to go mad. I don’t want to become a broken, lost thing like the others. But my predecessor’s memories and mine are blurring. I don’t know which are truly mine. I saw you in his memories—so when you appeared, I thought you were a hallucination. That’s why I attacked you.

  Yan Qing’s eyes widened. Now he understood the violence of Chen’s first reaction.

  My predecessor wanted to see you more than anything. His childhood memories with you were his greatest treasure. But he died here, before he could.

  A thread of sorrow wound through Chen’s thought.

  And now it’s only me. I’m not the ‘Chen’ you knew as a child. You must be disappointed.

  “Don’t say that.” Yan Qing, fighting vertigo, wrapped his arms around Chen. “You’re you. You’re nobody’s copy. You’re unique.”

  You’re the Chen I’ll meet in the future. The one I love.

  He kept the words to himself.

  Yan Qing smiled, soft and aching, at this younger, almost innocent Teleopean.

  Chen’s hands covered his, trembling.

  In those golden eyes, something warm flickered—so familiar it nearly broke Yan Qing.

  If you think I’m unique… then stay.

  Yan Qing’s throat ached. “We only met today.” His voice shook. “Why do you want me to stay?”

  Chen blinked, earnest and unguarded.

  Because to me… you’re the only reality.

  Yan Qing wanted to ask, What did I ever do to deserve this? But the hope and longing in Chen’s gaze stopped him.

  He made Chen wait until there was nothing left to wait for.

  Silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Chen’s hope began to falter.

  Then Yan Qing nodded, just once.

  A raw, unfamiliar joy surged through Chen, making his hands shake.

  I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you better.

  It was a promise—one Yan Qing knew was impossible, but he couldn’t help but smile back.

  He wanted to see Chen. He wanted to stay—until he couldn’t.

  His vision blurred, Chen’s face filling his world—so like the face he’d seen covered in blood.

  The same person.

  Always.

  Yan Qing’s faint smile colored his pale face. Chen’s thoughts drifted, weightless, and he understood.

  He wanted that expression to appear again.

  What does that expression mean?

  Yan Qing had smiled at him before, but Chen had never understood.

  “A smile?” Yan Qing touched his cheek. “It means… friendliness.”

  Gold pupils tightened, curious.

  Smile.

  Chen tried, awkward at first, but eventually managed something close to the gentle smile Yan Qing remembered.

  Yan Qing froze. For a moment, time felt wrong, as if reality had slipped.

  You don’t like it?

  Seeing Yan Qing’s stunned expression, Chen’s eyes dimmed.

  “No,” Yan Qing said, voice thick. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

  Really?

  The golden eyes brightened.

  Yan Qing nodded, reaching up to touch Chen’s cheek with trembling tenderness. “I really like it when you smile… uh…”

  He hesitated, remembering how Chen had reacted to his name before.

  Just call me that name.

  Chen seemed to sense his uncertainty.

  “But I thought you didn’t want people to call you that.”

  As long as you know I’m not my predecessor, a name is just a label.

  Chen met those black eyes and felt the world tilt, intoxicated by the warmth inside them.

  And you want to call me that.

  He didn’t ‘say’ it aloud.

  He’d first seen this person in his predecessor’s memories—a brief, precious time, every detail painfully clear. He’d been drawn to that memory, to the child’s smile and black eyes—the only warmth on a dead world.

  Years later, he met the grown version—battered, but with the same eyes, the same smile. This time, the smile was real, present, meant for him.

  It made him realize he was real too—not just a copy.

  His world was real.

  This person’s arrival gave meaning to a life that had been nothing but survival.

  “Can I call you that?” Yan Qing asked, voice trembling.

  Yes.

  Chen nodded.

  “Chen.” Yan Qing said the name, steadying himself. His eyes burned with joy and sorrow. He reached out his hand. “My name is Yan Qing. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  A small, genuine smile crossed Chen’s face. He took Yan Qing’s hand, closing his fingers around it.

  I’m glad too, Yan Qing.